childhood memories
by Settely
Summary: streets full of orphans aren't colourful even in the daylight; a series about eugene's childhood; angst, quite mature themes


He wondered once, when he was nothing but a kid, whether his life could have looked better if his parents had been different. He played thieves and police with other street rats, with kids whose mommies and daddies had long ago forgotten about them, even when the fairy-tells kept saying it was impossible. Because everyone loves each other, no matter how poor, dirty or silly they are. He had thought that there was no other way of living one's life. Just dirt, hunger and scared whispers at a cold night.

Then richer people came into view, their children dressed colourfully and joyfully, clothes full of little silver bells, ethereal material spilling down their little arms and legs. They played with him too, their laugh so lighter and different compared to his and kids' among whom he learnt to live. He promised himself to never have children when merchants cupped faces of theirs with loving hands, when saleswomen bought tons of toffee apples for their own on Halloween. He promised himself to spare them the pain if he'd ever had the misfortune of not being able to buy even a bread, if his fingers were too broken to do anything. He promised himself to never fall in love, thus wanting to make a family.

Sometimes, they'd find some books the rich had thrown away years ago onto the street, magic things spilling from their pages freely onto the ground, dust and blissful ignorance on his face. He couldn't remember who had taught him to read, a sheer coincidence and unbelievable luck. Perhaps someone though it'd be funny to have a little rat know the greatness of his misery.

And so, time and time again, until he memorised everything to perfection, he'd read the others how to fold a napkin, eat asparagus or dress for a formal party. They'd laugh away the pain and longing afterwards, squinting at the pictures done with ultramarine or poppy's navy blue. Girls would curtsey awkwardly, folding their tattered dresses and boys would chew blades of yellowish grass, their sweet flavoured tobacco. They'd dance then, accompanied by some fiddle or pipe, laughs from the crowd and the rich.

_Oh, look, the plebs moves just the way we do, how funny, how sweet! Oh, cheer crowd, cheer! _

They'd always throw some bread or fruit at them afterwards, the only food they could ever ask for. The crowd disappeared every afternoon, when they were too tired to sing or dance any longer, limbs quivering in agony at every move. Nothing funny or sweet to look at available till the next morning with dawn breaking at their naked necks and greasy, smelly rugs. They were puppets scattered on the street before every show, cries filled with pain, starved skeletons and their big, gloomy eyes so beautiful in the daylight, filled with such a humour in every dance!

_Oh, cheer crowd, cheer every night for your little actors dying at the feet of your door. _

His eyes weren't blue then, no way. They were grey with hunger, a bit brown round the pupil because of the dirt and green at the very end, just beside the sclera thanks to having no sun around. Others kept saying that, at least. He had no mirror or even clear water to see for himself, but who cared anyway. No one did. His body was paler than the dust all of them had smeared across their faces, hair a tangled, dark mess. Some of the merchants who saw them daily, kicking away their outstretched, bandaged with scraps of some stolen sheets hands with an ease, said he was quite a handsome lad. Just like a bunch of other boys or girls. He was sure they were the ones who kept the other side of the street screaming the other week. Every street in this little town, screamed at some point. He'd always thought they had been telling them frightening things, just like the ones kids tended to tell each other on Halloween. That must had been it.

And then would come days filled with rain and icy wind, tears clinging heavily to their cheeks. But he remembered only splinters nowadays , glittering snowflakes of pain and loneliness. He sometimes thought to himself, if everything hadn't been just a messed-up dream. But no, scars told the true story and he believed, remembered and cried at night.


End file.
